


Head and Heart Disconnect

by Mooninscorpio



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:39:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninscorpio/pseuds/Mooninscorpio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Synopsis:  Events between  “Terra Incognita” and  “YHWH”.  </p>
<p>John is rescued by Fusco and Harold at the cabin in the Catskills, suffering severe hypothermia and blood loss from his gunshot wound.  Harold takes him to the only remaining safe house available to them, and immediately calls Dr. Tillman to attend to John’s medical condition. It takes John a little over  a month to recover, during which time, he is a changed man after his near-death experience.  He reflects on his old habits he wants to change from his past and present and his hopes for the future, if he ever survives Samaritan’s pursuit of The Machine and Team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. HEAD DISCONNECT

**Author's Note:**

> "Those who seek redemption will find it, only after forgiving themselves first." (self-quote)

ONE: HEAD DISCONNECT

The blizzard envelopes NYC in tightly packed cleansing snow, making the view from the safe house bedroom window appear renewed and the park benches below resemble vanilla frosted rectangular cakes all in a row. 

John lay resting in bed, with morphine and antibiotic IVs attached to his right arm, heart monitor, vials of medication, sterile dressing supplies and a tray of broth and gatorade nearby for easy digestion while recovering from the near -fatal abdominal blood loss and hypothermia effects from Gil’s vicious shooting - Chase Patterson’s estranged illegitimate brother turned serial murderer who wiped out his entire family. An inglorious way for John to nearly die, after all his years as the most highly decorated CIA operative the Agency ever had from Special Forces. The soldier was going to be out of combat for a good while, and of all times, when he was most needed to protect Harold and Root and continue their mission to fight Samaritan. But John was also only a mortal man, which is what brought him once again to the safe house in the first place. 

A man lucky to have good friends in the thick of battle: Namely the underestimated Det. Fusco, acting on a hunch after worriedly scanning through Carter’s old Chase Patterson cold case file on his desk, surmised correctly that John would be personally involved in avenging Joss’ memory, at the old deserted cabin in the woods. When Harold contacted him about John’s disappearance, both came for him in the early down of that fateful day. they found him nearly unconscious and with alarmingly low vital signs, which Harold immediately ascertained. Root guided them in their search with coordinates given by The Machine, a miracle in itself, as the area was entirely off the grid. in unknown territory in the Catskills. Beating morning rush hour traffic, hey sped back to the city to their remaining safe house, and entering the back entrance of their apartment building, they carried an unconscious John into the readied bedroom, already stocked with emergency supplies. 

 

Back at the Eighth precinct, the news spreads like wildfire that Chase Patterson was found drugged and taken to Emergency. Gil was dead by Reese’s service weapon, and John was shot in the abdomen in the deadly skirmish with Gil. Iris has heard about the news as she heard staff speaking to Det. Fusco in the bullpen area. She had gone there the day after John was shot, to give him a copy of his sign-off from her psychiatric counseling session with him, and was shocked to hear about the shooting. She hurried back upstairs to her office, locked her door with the Session in Progress sign up, and wept for several minutes, unknown to her nearby coworkers. She wanted to run to him and visit, but dared not ask anyone for information, lest they suspect a more-than-professional interest in her former patient. The cruel irony of their clandestine relationship was to be lived with.

 

Several days later, Fusco runs into Iris and seeing her worried expression when she glances at Riley’s still-vacant desk, Fusco takes her aside. 

“I’ve seen you passing through looking concerned Dr. Campbell. My partner John is in goo hands and slowly recovering,” Eyeing her raised eyebrows and diffident manner, he wants to reassure her curiosity but gives few details, unsure of how much she knows about him and not wanting to risk Dr.-patient confidentiality.. Iris clutches her file she hold a little tighter, as she explains.

John is no longer a patient of mine. I closed his case a few weeks ago as he’s made good progress. However, sometimes, I need to continue informally following up on prior patients for 90 days, to see if they’re staying the course …” she looked at Lionel intently for a moment, deciding he was to be trusted a little more. 

“Give him my wishes for a speedy recovery. ” she tried to sound generically offhand, but Fusco saw beyond her words, in the worried expression in her eyes and the dark circles showing perhaps sleepless nights. In a softer tone, he reassures her,

“I’ll let him know Red” She smiles at his impromptu nickname for her. John never called her anything but Dr. Campbell initially, then Iris, after she announced that she was transferring him to another staff therapist. Sometimes her Dad called her Red when she changed her hairstyle as a teenager.  
Maybe that was what she saw in John: that protective instinct that her Dad once had for her, always looking out for his only girl.

Thank you Detective Fusco. It must be quite an experience working with Det. Riley.” she tries to lighten the moment between them.

“Yeah, you could say that.” Fusco countered and took a big sip of his coffee. He sees Iris’ wide-eyed worry for John. He looks at his watch.

“Now I have to do his paperwork backlog!” He pointed at two stacks of files on Riley’s desk. He didn’t want to go into his experiences working with Riley or questions about it. Iris saw the ruse and dismissed herself quickly. 

In an hour, he hears from Harold about John’s status: Harold tiredly informed him that his wound was healing slowly, Dr. Tillman keeping him on IV morphine for pain, and antibiotics for infection control. Since he could not be admitted to any local hospital, Dr. Tillman herself stitched him up as soon as possible upon hearing of the unfortunate situation. Fusco passes along Iris’ message and couldn’t hesitate to ask:

“Hey Glasses, do you think they have a thing going on? You know, more than a shrink - patient?” He waited for Harold’s response, hearing a long sigh on the other end. He thought he heard him muttering, “ how would I know, he never tells me anything these days.” and he had to listen hard. 

“Harold coughed delicately, and in crisper tones, he revealed to the concerned detective, 

“I suppose I can understand if they both do, they[re both consenting adults and know what they’re doing, despite the risks involved, which are many. Nonetheless,I have the situation well under control and thoroughly investigated Detective. These days, you just can’t take anything for granted.” 

Lionel nodded assent to Harold’s wise foresight and again,Harold thanked him for his invaluable assistance in tracking John down.   
“Yeah, with Shorty missing in action, you don’t want to be down another.” 

Truer words were never spoken, in Harold’s mind.


	2. TWO:  END OF THE BLIZZARD

TWO: END OF THE BLIZZARD

Temperatures are still in the upper twenties, but the snow had turned to dirty much along the crosswalks and trapped parked cars. The hours and days run into each other for John and Dr Tillman has given him strict orders to remain bed bound so the internal abdominal damage could heal. Against her better judgement, she had wanted him admitted, but Harold told her it was absolutely not an option. At that, the young doctor paled at the unknown reasons for Harold’s secrecy and John’s survivability. Years ago, when John had saved her, she knew she was dealing way beyond her league as she marveled at the mysterious operative’s modus operandi and Harold’s obvious authority over John. Yet, she trusted them with her life and he had been very financially generous.

  
“Thanks Harold,.” he whispered, laying it on his lap disinterestedly. He glanced at the large Roman numeral clock on the adjoining wall. Three-fifteen. Last time he checked it was one o’clock and the DVD was silent at the end of one of the movies Fusco brought him to watch.

“How long have I been here?” he asked Harold, who was gingerly uncovering the soup lid.

“Three weeks John. You’ve healed very slowly but are doing better this week, according to Dr. Tillman. We’re very indebted to her. She literally saved your life. It was a very close call John.” Harold’s voice shook with emotion as he looked down into the soup.

John knee it too, and heard it in Harold’s voice, although his mind was still hazy on the details of that night, he felt as if every energetic muscle cell in his forty-something year old body was completely dissipated and buried in that snowstorm he barely escaped with his life.But he was here now, safe at the safe house and smelled food. He looked down at the small cream colored envelope on his lap.

“Open it Harold. You can read it to me. I miss your reading.” John ventured to tease.

Harold began opening the card, and noticed a lovely design on the card: A line of trees, flecked by sunlight and a lightly painted rainbow spanning half the card’s top half. The caption, “Get Well Wishes For You” in center. He opened the card and noticed a handwritten note on the blank side of the card. Afraid to pry into John’s affairs, he glanced at the sender’s name: just the initial “C”. He folded the card up and only said,

“Maybe it’s personal John. I don’t think I should read it. You might do that after I leave when you’re up to it.”

  
John was a little surprised but only nodded and said nothing. John grew a little quieter as they both looked at the card. Harold arranged John’s lunch on a small bed tray, remarking about how the university was cutting back on his hours over the winter break.

John was still looking away towards the window lost in some indecipherable thought. In fact, Harold noticed John’s tendency during his recuperation to just simply stare off into his own thoughts more often. Harold saw a new vulnerability in John’s face during the past few weeks. He imagined that he had suffered greatly in that lonely, death-defying night. An awkward silence filled the room as the big clock ticked softly.

“Have some spoonfuls of soup John. Your favorite, chicken noodle.” he offered politely and helped John sit up a little to eat. John grimaced at the sharp pain still present over his abdomen. The dressings were a light brownish-red color and needed changing soon, Harold thought. Maybe he’d stay a little longer and do it himself, rather than bother Dr. Tillman before her six-o-clock appointment to see John.

“Maybe when you can eat more solids, you may have some eggs benedict from the diner sometime.” Harold saw John’s eyebrows lift a fraction at that. The eggs benedict was how it all began, the doorway to trust beginning to open between them.

“Good idea” John managed to say as he began to eat, his face a stoic mask of pain withheld. Harold readjusted the bed controls so he could sit more upright without exertion. As he ate, Harold briefed him that Root was staying busy and out of trouble. She was still under various false covers and still hoping to find Sameen. Lionel made more of an effort to stay in touch with him, for news about his recovery and to offer any help needed with the NYPD and Numbers. There were less Numbers now, and the Machine seemed to be losing the surveillance coverage it once had in various parts of the country. John was relieved by Harold’s conversation about anything other than himself and his feelings right now, which ware like an open raw wound, just like the one on his abdomen.

**** INTERLUDE****

After Harold leaves, John reaches for the card, and sees a slightly familiar handwriting inside.

“Dear John,

I hope you are doing much better as the days and weeks pass. I thought you might like this card as a reminder of happier times for you. Things might have been stormy for you in the past, but there’s always hope for change for the better. Your coworkers and friends here wish you a speedy recovery and miss your smiling face. All the Best.

“C”

A good message, he thought - “C” for Campbell: simple, direct, yet keeping things guardedly vague. He looked at the rainbow on the card and smiled a little. Just like her Greek goddess inspired name: Rainbow. Beautiful colors appearing after stormy weather. A real natural phenomena but a temporary one, gone like an illusion, he thought. Their kiss was not illusion though, and her impassioned confession of “having feelings for you” was not either. Surprising him with her impulsive “oh, to hell with it” as she rushed towards him, kissing him and blushing madly. Was that an illusion? That someone desired him again as a man? He took the wild leap of faith and grabbing for her hand, pulled her towards himself, and as his eyes closed and he drank in the softness of her cheek and lips, Jessica’s face and Joss’ voice clamored for attention in his mind, then their din retreated. And he kissed someone new, someone he dared to hope would accept him for himself at last.

Before sleeping for the night, he re-reads Iris’ note, then carefully pocketing it in his boxers pocket underneath him. He fades into sleep again, and he dreams that she is holding her cat on her lap, and beckons to him to come closer. When he does, the cat disappears into another room and they are alone. She stands up and he notices the sky blue dress she is wearing absolutely matches her eyes. Touching her cheek, he takes her in his arms, and when he kisses her. He feels Jessica’s love, and forgiveness, and Carter’s voice saying, “it’s okay John. You’re not in trouble anymore.”


	3. A BREAK IN THE WEATHER

Next day, the cold winds are stilled and partly sunny skies begin to shine over Manhattan. With the weekend free from classes, Harold visits John during the afternoon, bringing him take out chicken soup from Katz's. John is propped up in bed in a loose hospital gown pulled up to his waist and a pair of loose black boxers. Harold notices the weight loss throughout his tall frame and a pang of painful regret fills him as he recalled how remiss he was at not going after John sooner that horrible night he went missing. Even with the best of the Machine's efforts, it was a miracle that Root pulled off an extended search upstate beyond the Machine's surveillance area. Here makes a mental note to arrange for Dr Tillman to continue caring for John, providing him with more IV care and eradicating any infection to his abdominal wound.

"John, I want to give you something from someone you know, but I don't really know who it is. Fusco handed me this after work last night." He cautiously retrieved a small cream colored envelope and John took it silently, glancing at the small print.

"Thanks Harold" he whispered, laying it on his bed. He glanced at the large roman numerals on the huge clock opposite his bed.

"How long have I been here?" he asked tentatively, as Harold carefully opened the soup lids.

"Three weeks John. You've been seriously injured and very weak. However, Dr. Tillman says you're healing well but very slowly. She literally saved your life despite our not being able to put you in the hospital." Harold's hands trembled a little as he continued,

"It was a very close call John. You were non responsive when we b brought you here." Harold's voice shook with thinly disguised emotion as he kept his eyes lowered to stir the soup. John knew that he had barely escaped death by hypothermia and a reduced heart rate, being out in the freezing temperatures for the entire night. Although full memory of the events of that night were scattered and confusing to recall, he knew that much and his forth-something year old body knew it too. He was as weak as an addict going through withdrawals. He ate half of his soup and put it down, glancing at the card beside him.

"Open it Harold. You can read it to me. I miss your reading." John ventured to tease a little. Harold began opening the card and noticed a lovely design ` a line of evergreen trees, flecked by sunlight and a lightly painted rainbow gracing the sky above. "Get Well Wishes For You" ws titled in center. He opened it and saw a personal note on the blank side of the card. Not wanting to pry, he just glanced at the sender's name: only the initial "C" was all he or she signed. He folded the card up again and said,

"Maybe it's a personal note John. I don't think I should read it. You might want to do that after I leave, when you're up to it."

Surprised, John nodded and reached for his soup again. He was a little more quiet for the next several minutes as Harold made small talk about his workload at the college, the goings on at the precinct, according to Fusco, and Root's recent humorous aliases, which kept her constantly on her toes. After a moment's awkward silence, Harold became serious and asked John,

"Are you alright by yourself here? I could perhaps bring Bear over to keep you company for an hour or two, while i run a short errand." John thought about seeing Bear, but quickly replied,

"It's okay Harold, i'm entertained enough here with all this -" pointing to about 20 video Fusco had left him to watch.

Harold nodded in agreement at that and offered,

"Soon as you're up to eating more solids, I can stop by the diner and order some eggs benedict to go, which would be a welcome change from Jello, i suppose." John lifted his eyebrows a fraction at the mention of their favorite breakfast. That was how it all began - over eggs benedict, recommended by the elusive Finch shortly after working together for the first several months. How far they've come since those first uneasy months of their partnership.

"Good idea Harold. I probably need it," he looked down at his thinner arms. He sat up a little and the movement caused him to flinch in pain. He held his abdomen with his free arm and Harold saw that he was still a long way off from being completely healed.

"The Numbers aren't coming in as frequently now. It's as if the Machine knows you're not ready to get back to awork yet." Harold confessed. John doubted that was the case, but let his thought go on the matter.

"Thank you for lunch Harold. You came all this way ---in the cold."

"No matter, John. I had to stop for lunch myself and buy some more computer cables and other supplies for Root."

After harold leaves, John reaches for the card and sees a slightly familiar handwriting inside.

"Dear John,

I hope you are doing better as the days and weeks pass. I thought you might like this card as a reminder of happier times. Things might have been stormy for you in the past, but there's always hope for change for the better. Your coworkers and friends here wish you a speedy recovery and miss your smiling face.

All the best,

"C"

Iris - a good message, he thought. Simple, direct, discreet, just like herself. He looked at the rainbow on the front of the card and smiled a little. Just like her name's symbolic meaning: goddess of the rainbow. Beautiful colors appearing after rain. A real natural phenomena but a short-lived illusion. Their shared kiss was not an ilusion, her impassioned confession of "feelings" for him wasn't illusion either, and touching her face and kissing her back was definitely not an illusion for him. She surprised him with her impulsive "oh, to hell with it" as she rushed towards him and kissed him with surprising vigor for someone so quietly professional. Was it an illusion, when his heart skipped a beat to dare hope that someone could accept him for who he really was, which she had tried to do so skillfully in their sessions, but backed off out of respect for his vulnerable feelings whenever sensitive topics surfaced.

He looked out over the lit upper floors of the brownstones across the street. He saw figures walking inside one of the apartments. He closed his eyes, remembering how good it felt, holding a woman again. Jessica's face softly entered his mind, Joss' voice vied for attention, saying something like, "I want to retire on a beach." Glancing once more at Iris' note, he closed his eyes and with morphine helping his limbs relax, he began to dream.

He's in Iris' office, worried about whatever news she had to tell him. No, no more sessions with her? He was just beginning to look forward to them, even paying for them with his own salary. Iris is sitting at her desk holding big furry cat on her lap, smiling. He comes towards her and the cat jumps off her lap, retreating to a corner. Iris stands up and she is wearing a brighter sky blue blouse with her gray suit. She beckons him to come closer and he touches her cheek, then her shiny copper colored hair. The walls in the room fall away, and he hears Joss' soft reassuring voice, "it's okay John. You're not in trouble anymore."


	4. HEAD AND HEART DISCONNECT

FOUR: HEAD AND HEART DISCONNECT

A week passes, and john is able to walk about the safe house to use the bathroom and shower again. Dr. Tillman has discontinued the IV line and placed him on oral antibiotics. Harold and he speak more often during the weeknights, but Harold keeps the conversation short, and only stays a half hour so as not to tire John. Dr. Tillman reported that John has been unusually quiet, often staring out into space. Harold agrees with her that John has changed somehow. A man near death sees his own afterlife, he’d read somewhere. Did John see his in his last stages of hypothermia?

As for John? He is becoming a little more anxious about the Team’s and Iris’ safety without his protection. Unknown to him, the precinct staff is awash in speculations about John’s absence and the cold case he was working on. Iris hears bit and pieces of the water cooler fodder about the deceased detective Carter, who was awarded the posthumous accolades which still hung on the wall opposite her old desk, now occupied by Riley.

Sitting at her quiet office upstairs, she recalls one of their sessions, John’s first groundbreaking moment where he revealed that he’d once worked with a female detective, “the best I ever worked with” he’d said sadly, whom he “couldn’t save”. She began to put things together, and went back to some old files. Joss was at the Eights last year. But no record of John there. Did he possibly know her, and how did he, if he didn’t work in NY yet? He’s now sitting at her old desk, a wild coincidence. The brave detective had taken down HR almost single handedly and it’s former head Quinn, now rotted in jail. That was the storied legend still circulating at the precinct. And Fusco was the one who brought him in, twisting in his handcuffs. Did John really know Carter? What was his connection with her? Did he really work outside of NYC as personnel files stated?

Now he lay somewhere she couldn’t even visit, no one seemed to know which hospital he was in, or where he was recuperating. The man was as elusive as a secret PIN number. And she was sure Fusco knew where he was, as his superior partner should know. but Lionel wasn’t talking and she wouldn’t appear too eager to inquire, lest she blow her and John’s cover, for all to gossip about. John was exceptional, elusive, with layers of secrets only known to himself and maybe less than five living persons on earth. She had her own ideas about who and what he really was, but strangely, she wasn’t afraid of him, just afraid for him. For his violence filled life. a life so secret, she didn’t dare as about it. She vowed not to ask until he was ready to tell her someday. For now, it was enough on her to just send him a simple get well card. He’d read between the lines behind her generic message. Of that she was sure.

Later that evening, Harold retreated back to the subway, busy at his laptop, well into the night, stopping to occasionally rub his face in his hands while thinking about John, regretting how dismissive he’d been towards John ever since they assumed their fake identities. He an Shaw teasing him about needing to see a shrink. Still teasing him when he actually started treatments he didn’t want to divulge information about. John’s terribly forlorn facial expression as the parted ways, once their identities were given to them by The Machine. Seeing John’s resolute and grieved manner after Sameen was kidnapped by Greer. He should have seen the strain of John’s double life, at the NYPD during the day and by night, the unpredictable dangers working the Numbers. Should have noticed sooner how much physical and mental toll he was under, attempting to do it all,and most of all, his lingering loneliness and unexpressed grief after Carter’s death, because men like John had no time for grieve in luxury, as they plunged into their new identities, trying to simply stay under Samaritan’s Orwellian eye, separate and quietly desperate lives apart from one another.

His screen of the Machine’s old archives flipped to an old reel of a younger, more dangerous Reese, back in his old Agency days. Harold had seen gold there, and John was still gold, but he was taking on too much, physically, mentally and emotionally. They all were these past long months. He He looked up at the small cramped subway car called sanctuary now and swore under his breath.

‘I would have one John Reese to ten Dillingers ANY DAY’ Harold vehemently swore.


	5. CONNECTIONS AND DISCONNECT

FIVE: CONNECTIONS AND DISCONNECT

Exactly one month and five days later, Harold and Fusco helped John back to his own home, about five days after he was walking freely in the safe house. The continual lightheadedness from all the narcotics was abating, ever since Dr. Tillman lowered the dosage. Dr/. Tillman wasn't as handsomely reimbursed for her services as she had been a year ago. However, Harold had keenly followed her post graduate studies and was the first to recommend her to Columbia to further her specialty in cardiology.

The antibiotics worked their internal magic and his heart rate and blood pressure stabilized. More alert, but still too weak to do anything strenuous, he did what was recommended without protest. He still asked Harold and Fusco what had occurred that night - all he remembered was sensations of extreme cold, crawling on his frozen belly to the safety of his car, and the despair of it having a dead battery. Dropping temperatures, nightfall and blacking out and a desperate need to stay awake because someone he knew was talking to him to keep him from sleeping. They all continued to watch his progress, and noticed a subtle yet clear change in John: they saw the once deadly intense eyes now looking somewhere, but nowhere in the distance, as if he were searching for someone or something just out of reach. Normally taciturn, he became even more so, only asking the most pertinent of questions about Harold’s activities, Root’s latest escapades involving the Machine, the Machine’s status, Lionel’s workload back at the office, and how long was he to be "stuck at home recuperating”.

Typical John in that respect, Harold noted with some relief. He was beginning to wonder at this change in him. For lack of a better word, he wondered with a slight panic, “Is John getting soft?” He almost desperately wanted to tell him, “Please John, go and finally find the happiness you deserve. I took away so much of your life before I met you, and you forgave me in your own way. But you almost really died this time and I’m not going to let you die without finding that happiness, even though I myself have lost my own chances. “

Because of the mass of dressings over his abdomen and his inability to store his service weapon properly under his clothes yet, John knew better than to venture outside and try to rejoin the Team. or even return to work prematurely. So whenever he was near John's apartment, Harold personally delivered other cards from his coworkers, via Fusco: Captain Moreno’s concerned note, Silva’s funny get well card, Lionel gave him a blank get well card with a gift card to Katz’s once he was well enough to eat their cholesterol laden pastrami sandwiches.

Harold even brought Bear to him one night and the poor creature was so wildly overjoyed to see his old master, that Harold had to restrain him from pawing too roughly at John’s injuries. Bear sniffed John’s pajamas, and suddenly sat stock sstill, and began licking his hands instead.

“If all my coworkers were like Bear i’d have a great day at work,” John quipped, and Harold was glad some of John’s humor was resurfacing. They ate a take-out dinner of deli sandwiches and tomato bisque soup as Bear licked his chops when Harold took out two brownies from the aromatic paper bag.

“I have some more cards in my coat pocket” Harold limped over to John's overcoat stand in the hallway. He handed two more cards to John and John glanced at them: One read, “For John” in bold masculine writing. the other simply said “John” with a familiar scroll below his name. Must be from Iris, again, gazing at her handwriting for a few seconds. He opened the first and placed hers on his nightstand for a moment. Harold studied the card closely saying nothing. Lionel had delivered the cards to him yesterday, expressly instructing him not to forget or lose them.

“What a surprise Harold, a card from Lionel’s son” He smiled as he opened up an article the young teen placed inside his card. It was a cut out section of the Sunday comics. He smiled as he read the enclosed Batman comic and the short note “get well Mr. Riley. My dad misses you a lot at work!”

John glanced at the other card, and decided to open it in front of Harold, curiously eyeing it. Harold studied his expression as John ripped the envelope and saw the tall lush photo of a forest with the sun glinting in between the dark trees, a slight view of snowcapped mountains in the distance. A small stream with a picnic basket and blanket lay serenely on the grass. John opened the card slowly and read the first few lines on the left hand side:

Dear John,

“Hope you’re feeling much better and getting enough rest both physically and mentally. Everyone is asking for you and hope you’re doing better. Captain says take all the time you need to get better. Many of the staff donated their sick days to you and were more than happy to do it. You’re a real hero to all of us and much missed and appreciated."

“C”

John looked away before Harold could see the welling of tears behind his eyes at the unexpected favor done for him by his coworkers. Instead of the years-old guilt and unworthiness, he now felt humbled and deeply touched by their kindness. Was this new feeling inside a “new habit”now? Or was he still raw from his nearly bleeding out in the snow? Seeing Reese’s emotion, Harold rose quickly to clear their paper dinner trash and busied himself in John’s small kitchen, allowing his friend time to collect himself. Clearly what he read touched him and he didn’t want to pry into his business. So in typical Harold fashion, he began slicing the brownies on one of John’s best china dishes, and bringing him his portion, he said with a little too much pomp.

“Chocolate mouse from Manon, they are not, but these calorie laden delicacies will do for now.” John had the slightest smirk when Harold pulled out his silk handkerchief to use as as makeshift dinner napkin for John.

*************************************************************************

 

Nearly all his DVD's watched, John listened to music given to him by Lionel's son. He thought of Taylor and how he had not even the opportunity to look in on him as he had promised. Sadly, their new aliases and Samaritan's swift ascent prevented him from venturing anywhere in NYC which was under Samaritan's surveillance, and that included Taylor and his Dad's place uptown.

He closed his eyes and Joss' voice drifted into his subconscious. He falls asleep with the last good dose of morphine of Dr. Tillman's daytime dosage. He dreams he is in a brand new car. oss’s voice determinedly spurring him on to survive through the night, asking him questions about someone — someone dear to him. Jessica. His brain a muddled fog of pain, numbing cold and increasingly disoriented. He felt shame about not telling Joss about himself. Joss trying to coax him to talk at last, to let people in. " The cold whipping through his damp coat, the awful pain in his gut spreading to his hands and feet. “no John, you never let me in. You thought you did but you never did.”

The shocking realization that he really never did tell Joss about Jessica, that his flashbacks were really his own fantasies of what he thought he told Joss. The biting wind gusting through the broken car window ,the deadly drop in nightfall temps and more freezing through his wet clothes. He wishes he could stay with Joss like this forever, and tell her at last all about himself. He feels her hand warming his numb one. He falls asleep thinking he hears music and feels heat.

The morphine produces bouts of deep sleep, and half-awake awareness. He dreams bits and pieces of that night, only the pleasant parts of it, Joss sitting next to him in the car. He tells her everything, even about his fears of dying in battle, that he didn’t want to die for someone, like all his other fallen buddies. He wanted to live through hell, without a picture of Jessica in his pocket. He wanted to be good at his job and live another day. He half-awakened and wonders where the picture of him and Jessica is. Did Harold find it in his pajama pocket and take it? Always paranoid Harry, he drifted off again. He dreams about the forests back in his old hometown in Pullayup, the sound of his parents’ voices in the family car as they drive through the lush canopy of tall trees...

 

The next day, he has no visitors but Harold calls him twice to ask if he needs any food or toiletries. He finds his Sig in one of his closets and cleans it, his fingers feeling like rubber as he checked the safety. He saw several dry cleaned suits and clean shirts with Harold's dry cleaners shop's name on the protective garment bag. He saw that his mail was in two neat piles on his desk and all his towels were neatly folded on his bathroom shelf. Harold must have done these small favors as he slept. After a small dinner of canned salmon and soft rice, John sat by the window watching the twinkling lights of the distant Queensboro Bridge, and thought about the card Iris sent. She couched her thoughts in generalized terms, careful to not give anything away. For that he was grateful. A discreet woman, outwardly and inwardly. No attention drawn to herself, good at her job… or was good at it until she threw all caution to the winds with him, and he, with her. If she knew about Samaritan, she’d truly be afraid. For him, for herself.

Yet, even though his head told him otherwise, he felt something about her getting into his head and his heart too. She trusted him. She wasn’t afraid of his demons. Carter knew about them too, yet because of the dangers of exposing her and Taylor to The Machine, he had held himself at arm’s length from her, fearing that by association, she’d be killed by Samaritan as well as the HR threat to her. John holding Carter in his arms as she breathed her last moments, he held a soldier, a mother and most of all, the woman he had fallen in love with, much too late. It was such a crushing grief that he’d turned into an unstoppable monster on a relentless rampage against everyone associated with HR and even though he’d heard that Scarface had killed Simmons, he wished he’d done it himself. It was then that he surmised that perhaps Elias wanted to avenge Carter's death as well, and hated Simmons as much as he did too.

He was at an early crossroads with Iris. How was he going to have a relationship with someone he’d just connected with, without losing his head in the process? He’d have to think large for both of them while around her, if he was to protect her from being associated with his mission , the Numbers, continuing his Riley persona, and protect Harold and Root from Samaritan’s total annihilation of Western civilization, as they knew it.

No, Iris didn’t even know how much risk her consent to kiss him required of her. Yet somehow, deep in his gut, John knew that she understood the real man buried inside himself, underneath the layers of enforced violence and betrayal, and knew about the walled- in grief he couldn’t even express anymore. And perhaps the strongest attraction he felt for her was that she had faith in his ability to change and really believed he could do it on his own.

For months, he had felt alienated from Harold, Shaw and Root. Fusco kidded him about seeing a shrink but in serious moments, he said he was glad he'd done it because "look around you John. Every cop in here has seen a shrink at least a couple of times. You don't last in this business, unless you cool down a bit." Lionel was right of course and out of all of them, Lionel probably understood his daily struggles best, especially the paperwork he was forced to do to keep him on the straight path.

On the plus side, she wasn't his therapist any longer, and although she had signed off on him less than a month ago, he knew her career could still be under jeopardy. He didn't the secrecy of their relationship because he was good at it, as he told her, but was she just as good at subterfuge? The other major plus was, Samaritan didn't connect him with Riley, at least not yet. And there was no need for Samaritan to find a psychologist working for the city especially Deviant. As long as they both kept an extremely low profile and met outside the city for dates. He'd have to take the lead in meeting places off Samaritan's cams. Or he could just get off the train right now and spare them both the complications and possible ramifications ...yet, what was it about her?

She came into his life, when he wasn't even John Reese anymore and he wasn't even Riley either. He was himself, in plain sight. She peeled away at veneers of himself she knew nothing about, except that she was a trained psychologist, skilled at reading the deviants within the NYPD. Hardened men like himself working for a corrupt agency; Like Carter long ago, she came to help. Although unlike Carter, there was no dangerous cat and mouse game to be played. At least, not what he could ascertain and with Harold's research into her background, they were fairly certain she was who she said she was. Though, it still didn't answer what was her purpose in his life? Because of his workplace activities, she came into his life out of nowhere, and somehow had gotten inside his head, where no one else could reach, not even Finch for all his intelligence and shrewd perception. She was his psychologist, trained to help eradicate the inner bombs lurking underground in the minefields of the human psyche, and she did it by simply calmly waiting for him to begin talking about himself. So was she sent by the Machine to save him, he wondered.

And unknown to him, early on in their sessions, she quickly surmised that unlike most people, he was one of the most emotionally locked people she had ever dealt with and she sensed that his life had been filled with dangers the everyday cop, detective or normal joe couldn't even deal with. She also surmised that he wasn't a cop at all. There were too many relatives in her family she'd grown up with and John just didn't fit the mold. She suspected a secret life in the CIA, as he was extremely good with hand to hand combat skills, tactical weapons, and could scan a room and its individuals faster than most of the detectives in the precinct.

Not even Carter got as much out of him, within so short a time, but it wasn't her fault because he didn’t even give her a chance to get too close to him. Lord knows, she tried to break down his walls. And it was too late to undo the distance placed between himself and her - she had died too soon, another love lost, because he was too cowardly to admit it to her. He felt the cold window pane with his hands, smelled the cold glass, felt the gratitude welling up again for surviving his ordeal, his generous coworkers, and he thought of Iris again … she has feelings for me, she kissed me first because she wanted to, not event afraid to kiss me, her eyes downcast and her cheeks blushing at the thought of what she was doing, and did it anyway. Risking her career for me. Was that love? His head hurt from what his heart was making him feel.

Again, he thought of Joss, who laid her life down for his, taking the bullet intended for him. Had he opened up to her, he was sure she would have accepted him completely. She was no stranger to living his kind of life. Yet, because of Taylor's kidnapping and HR at her back, he couldn't involve her in knowing about the Machine and his true identity, should she be held hostage herself by anyone looking for him.

He was suddenly tired of thinking about them and what might have been and what could be in the future. He was tired of hiding and lying to himself, tired of hiding the grief he knew was there for everyone he’d ever lost, of the self inflicted fantasies he’d built in his mind in order to stay alive. He had stayed alive in the snow with Jessica’s picture in his car, and he was sure Joss came to him from beyond, to force him to finally help him close some sad chapters in his life, and die to that part of himself, leave it all behind him now and rejoin the living again. Yes, he had truly “died” in a way and he knew that he was safe for now in his own home. No one could see him in his apartment, if he had a meltdow, he thought foolishly. . Now was his time of healing, and making some long overdue decisions about what he wanted to do with the rest of his life. If he lived through Samaritan’s defeat, he’d go on and live a normal life as Det. Riley, and at last trust Iris enough to tell her everything without holding back, and learn to trust and love again. Whether with Iris or another woman or his closest friends. The easy part was thinking about it with his head. The hard part was adding the mystery of the human heart.

He went back to bed, feeling the weight of all his past starting to lift from his spirit. He turned the lights off, and closing his eyes, he heard music through his walls from next door. A younger couple had just moved in a few months ago. They alway had some romantic music on at night, maybe newlyweds. Newlyweds living a normal life right next door to him, someone as far from normal by any sense of the word.

He was still alive, he didn’t bleed out alone with no one to save him. Lionel and Harold saved him. He would verbally thank them and tell Lionel what a great job he’s done. Even thank Root, who helped save him by accessing every known surveillance area in NY state to find him. In her own way, she cared for him and trusted his judgement when the going got tough. And Harold? The man who gave him his purpose and saved him many times over? Soon as he was back on his feet, he’d fight the Samaritan battle with full abandon just as if he were saving another Number. He knew that he’d probably die saving Harold someday and he was also ready to die saving humanity from evil. There was no photo big enough to fit into his pocket, dying for a cause like that.

He savored the sounds of normal life next door, and with a plan forming in his mind about his future, John slept long and deeply at last.


End file.
